


Wibbly Wobbly Shenanigans

by BakerStreet_Kid, Watson_to_my_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Birthday, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Marriage, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, domesticlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-16 17:17:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4633647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerStreet_Kid/pseuds/BakerStreet_Kid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watson_to_my_Holmes/pseuds/Watson_to_my_Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pay attention Johnlock and Mystrade shippers, in this co-authored fic we see all four Holmes' in domestic bliss, filled with adventures, trials and triumphs, we see how four incredible men did come together and now endeavour to be happier than they've ever been. Mystrade is written by Grace, and Johnlock is written by Jessie. Enjoy x</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John Watson's Gay Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter (by Jessie @watson_to_my_holmes on instagram) is hopefully full of celebration and fluff for you! I have missed writing full Johnlock eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JOHN'S GAY ASS BIRTHDAY  
> Sherlock buys amazing presents, and a party awaits like no other.  
> This Chapter was written by Watson_to_my_holmes x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMFG I HOPE YOU LIKE IT

John never usually liked his birthday. Being the centre of attention was not even in his radar, and if it happened it was not something he relished. However, this particular birthday he had been excited about for months. Summer had rushed past in a record blaze of heat that forced showering twice a day, and a whirl wind of cases, so far of which have all been solved. All of this was alongside his husband, Detective Sherlock William Scott Watson-Holmes. John knew Sherlock was planning something big for his forty-fourth birthday. Since January, Sherlock had continued to drop hints about it, much to John's satisfaction. Most prominently were the 'un-birthday cards' that would arrive on the eighth of every month from January. It would be a normal birthday card, usually sickeningly soppy, bearing the image of a puppy or a Disney character, one month it even had an audio message of Winnie the Pooh himself singing a happy birthday. What made them so called 'un-birthday' cards was that Sherlock would write the same message in every card.

> _Dear John Watson-Holmes,_
> 
> _Whilst it is not your birthday today, it will be soon. And what a birthday it will be._
> 
> _With all my heart, Sherlock_

That January card was met with understandable confusion, but with Sherlock's persistence of them being given on the exact date preceding the actual birthday in September, John began to be excited for their arrival, it created a count down for his actual birthday, making it seem like some utterly life changing event. So in August, the penultimate month, he never expected to get the final 'un-birthday' card as Sherlock was away on the eighth for a case involving Rhinos, but of course not only did a card come through the letter box, but a UPS van delivered a parcel. The card was the plainest so far, a small white unassuming thing, made with thick material rough at its edges so it irritated your finger tips. In Sherlock's trained hand across the front, Sherlock had written in Blue ink, _Happy Un-Birthday._  Once the card was opened the message read,

> _John the time is close, in which it can finally be said that it's the day of your birth. Inside the parcel is clues to what your celebration will hold. Let's see what you can deduce. I cannot wait._
> 
> _With all my heart, Sherlock_

A smile stretched cross John's ageing face and his eyes awoke in the wonder of Sherlock. What a man. To have gone to all this trouble to make John feel so irrevocably important. John took no care when unwrapping the contents, for he was delirious with child-like want of what lay inside. There was so much in the thin brown packaging that it spluttered all across the floor. First thing to note, was a long banner of connected bunting all of which beared the British flag. So the party would be irrevocably British. This is after all what the Brits displayed proudly after the winning of World War Two amongst its battered streets. What if it wasn't a party? Sherlock hated Parties. That is why for Sherlock's previous birthday, John had ensured it was just a meal between the two of them. Would Sherlock give that notion up for John? The bunting suggested so. Next was a tiny inch by inch novelty book on 'the best ales in Britain.' John did like an ale. A beer festival? Maybe Sherlock would take him to one. It was so un-Sherlock though. John shook his head to the idea. Well for now this told him there would at least be alcohol, always a must on a birthday. Next was an empty photo frame. Black and simple, not dissimilar to one of Sherlock's suits, however, on a more complicated level it held Sherlock suspended in its emptiness that provided a mystery that needed disproving. So photos would be taken. John was starting to feel slightly concerned at how un-Sherlock this all was. Sherlock hated having his photograph taken. Maybe they were going somewhere that was photogenic? That thought excited John greatly. Endless possibilities of serene places sieved through his thoughts. There was a locked padlock with no key, so it was secretive then. They were to be in private, a private party suited John fine. The last item was a rose, the red petals had been spray painted green and it smelt of chemicals rather than its natural perfume it would have once suggested. Roses where romantic. Maybe it was just going to be Sherlock and he? It didn't sit right with John. It was coloured green, so they would almost definitely be outside. Why spray the rose green? John began to think back about any potential significance green may have played throughout the time they'd known one another. He hit a blank. Maybe he was thinking about it too much. So far the things had been seemingly simple in their message. After a while in thought John decided that maybe keeping the rose as a surprise was a good thing after all.

* * *

Today was the day. John's forty-fourth birthday, September the Eighth was finally here. John awoke with a contented sigh for his cheek lay rested on Sherlock's rising and falling chest, in which his smooth heart beat could be distinctively heard resounding throughout his chest cavity, meaning that Sherlock was very much alive and here for such a day. John had awoken before Sherlock and he savoured the few quiet seconds for the clearly manic day which apparently lay ahead. John lay content for a good fifteen minutes, but he decided that unfortunately he'd have to move due to his nagging bladder. He knew he shouldn't have had two cups of tea immediately before going to bed. As he began to move however, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Johns shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace. "Oh no you're not birthday boy" he said in tired boldness before placing a light kiss on his forehead. John giggled at his playfulness, "Sherlock I'm going to piss my pants!" Sherlock began to giggle back and only pulled him closer, "I don't care, in sickness and in health John, that is what marriage demands, you can't leave I'm afraid, I forbid it!" John laughed and then stopped himself because he really thought he was going to urinate in their bed on his bloody birthday. He felt Sherlock shake beneath him in his deep mutual snicker. "Sherlock I'm serious! I need to pee!" John began to wrestle himself away but Sherlock persisted and then to top it all off Sherlock began to sing loudly and dramatically elongated every word "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to John!" John got himself free and picked up his pillow and threw it at Sherlock's head which meant that he finally got away. John loved this child like play and his birthday so far had got to the perfect start. He hoped his seventieth birthday would start exactly the same.

Whilst John washed his hands, bladder now empty, he looked himself in the mirror and smiled a big wide grin. He dipped his head shyly at his own excited manner. It was his birthday.

As John began to open the door he heard Sherlock yell "wait, no wait John! Stay there." John froze, his reaction to Sherlock's instruction were fast due to the years of cases they'd ventured together. So he stood and waited. Then in just a loud enough tone Sherlock said, "come in now." Sherlock, now wearing his blue silk robe in comparison to the nakedness of the night had his arms splayed open. He bit his lower lip nervously, what if this wasn't right? What if John didn't want this. There in their bedroom, was a nineteen sixty-six Triumph Bonneville motorbike. Seven Hundred cc, it was the bike that meant business. John had wanted one of these since he was sixteen. John stood in shock under the door frame, wearing nothing but his lucky red pants. It was perfect. Its body was blood red and cobra black, the word 'Triumph' was written in bright eye catching yellow, the engine was polished silver and the mechanics alone where making John feel woozy. There was space for two people and the exhaust pipe was ginormous. John imagined the noise it must make. He could see him and Sherlock roaring through London painting the town red. John remained in limbo at the place between the bathroom and the bedroom, not quite in or out of both. Together his stance and face unchanged, jaw dropped and hands facing the bike, as if his movement might eradicate this moment some how. Sherlock however, in the silence, had begun to panic, he clasped his hands together at chest height and began a speedy babble, "you don't like it do you? Oh god! I thought this wasn't right, a bit much, I mean we must take risks but maybe.. Oh John I'm so sorry I wanted this day to be perfect..." John interrupted almost angry at how Sherlock could read him so wrong, "Don't like it?!! Are you kidding me?! This is the best thing that has ever been given to me! Sherlock it's perfect, you're perfect. How the fuck did you know?!" John quickly went through in his mind at any point they may have talked about motorcycles but he drew a blank, Sherlock answered for him now fully relieved he hadn't in fact cocked up, his entire body had now relaxed and he spoke with all the confidence the world could possibly provide. "The Bear Biker, remember that case?" Now John remembered.

A man found dead in the middle of a wheat field with no apparent way of him to either have got there or reason to be there. It transpired that he was riding on the back of a two seater triumph, fell off and fatally banged his head, his secret gay-lover had been driving, in a panic he simply left him there in fear of being outed to the whole biking community. They had nothing to worry about in that department, however the tyre marks matched perfectly to the patterning of the newly turned over ground. Sherlock deduced that the only tyres light enough and with the capability to go smoothly over such an earth most likely belonged to a triumph, old, sturdy and reliable. There was only one Triumph in that town and it belonged to the now outed lover. John whistled as the bike was taken by police for evidential purposes, instead of black and red it was a dark orange with a glittered shine. Sherlock had asked him, 'you like it?' and John had replied with 'if I had the money, that's the bike I'd have.' Now in the present John asked "How the bloody hell did you remember that?! That was" John paused for thought, "four years ago!" Sherlock smiled, that was enough for John to finally walk over to his husband. On the way to one another Sherlock said, "I'd never delete anything about you John." They embraced, behind the bike closer to the door to the kitchen than the one to the en suite. John kissed Sherlock on the mouth with all the thanks in the world. Mid-kiss John had a thought and pulled away, "how the fuck did you get it up those stairs in the time it took me to urinate?!" Sherlock giggled, he knew John would have such a question. "Never lose your curiosity John." Sherlock re-enterd the kiss, but John genuinely wanted to know, so he pulled away again and spoke playfully, "I will never touch your mouth to mine as long as I live if you don't tell me how you got that bike into our bedroom." Sherlock threw his head back and laughed, the audacity of it. Their eyes reconnected once more, "well with those demands I'll tell you every cinching detail, since seven this morning five of my homeless network have been waiting out side the front door with the bike under a sheet." John laughed and Sherlock continued. "The bike has been kept in Mycroft's garage for the past six weeks, and when you went up to the toilet the first thing I did was text them the code 'Triumph.'" John now laughed so hard that he had to rest his head on the detectives shoulder to keep him upright, he was married to the most ridiculous man. But the best man. After they'd calmed down, John whispered a "thank you" before their lips touched once more.

* * *

Breakfast was brought up by a very delightful Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock greeted her with a friendly "good morning Hudders" and John gave her a merry kiss upon the cheek. It was John's favourite, a full English cooked by the best chef he knew. Whilst John was cutting a sausage and Mrs. Hudson was taking a bite of toast, Sherlock stood and left the pair in mild confusion. Sherlock walked straight to the fridge, which to John's knowledge had only contained an immeasurable amount of petri dishes containing various forms of saliva for the previous fortnight. However, on Sherlock spinning and returning to the table it was obvious that it was thankfully a bottle of 'Bucks Fizz.' They all gasped at the pop of its opening and then, the Orange Juice and Champagne sloshed comically into mugs that held tea only minutes before, they shared a happy cheers and sipped, followed with a choir of "mmms" at how pleasant the beverage was. John said "thank you" to them both for the eighteenth time today. It was yet to reach half past nine. Once plates were clean, Mrs. Hudson produced a tiny white box with red ribbon and John said a "oh you didn't have to" before Mrs. Hudson persuaded him otherwise with a shake of the head and a cheerful "happy birthday." John unwrapped it and Sherlock watched pleasantly as the whole scene unravelled before him. Two of his favourite people were about to share a moment he'd been planning for months. John placed the ribbon gently on the table and lifted the lid off the small curious box as daintily as possible. He lifted out a single key, attached to a keyring shaped like a small magnifying glass. He shot a confused look in both his breakfast companions direction. Mrs. Hudson said with the excitement of a Disney Princess, "the triumph." John let out a gasp. This was the key to that beautiful bike. He jumped up, kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek and then Sherlock on the lips, quickly noted he tasted like orange and alcohol, and then ran to the bedroom. Insuring it was on it's stand, he placed the key in the ignition. Both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson giggled as they could hear both the roar of the aged engine and the audible child like delight that buttered out of John's mouth.

* * *

 

Sherlock texted the homeless network an apt second message saying, "ATM" which means, _All Things Motorcycle_ , they came in their drove and Sherlock thanked them with an expensive fifty quid each after they collectively carried the bike down the stairs (which proved stressful to both Mrs. Hudson and John, one wishing for the walls safety and one for the bikes.) John felt amazing as he climbed aboard the front of the triumph. He couldn't believe this was his. He hadn't ridden a bike for maybe five years, but the skill hadn't left him. Although it was September, the day was warm from the Indian Summer London had been experiencing, and as Sherlock walked out the door of 221b having just said a farewell to Mrs. Hudson, John guffawed at how good his husband looked. He had black Ray Ban shades on and a similar dark green pair sticking out his charcoal suit pocket. It was too hot for the Belstaff today, so just the suit with a crisp white shirt; a seductive three buttons open. Just the way John liked it. In his hands Sherlock held two helmets, one black monochrome, simple and stylish for himself and one a shiny crisp white for John. John revved the engine on Sherlock's approach making Sherlock laugh. Sherlock threw John the white helmet, which John caught and then popped on. Without using his hands Sherlock climbed aboard the back seat and simultaneously placed his own helmet atop his head. Now safely both on, Sherlock wrapped his arms around the doctors waist. The contact made John feel the coolest he'd ever felt. To top it all off before they drove away Sherlock passed John the dark green Ray Bans from his pocket. John giggled in his helmet, he lifted the clear visor and popped them on. Sherlock now placed his arms perfectly interlinked with his husbands torso, and John dropped his visor down once more and just like that they're off. In a jet of noise they darted around the streets of London, both John and Sherlock were having the time of their lives; grinning from ear to ear. What a day for a birthday. And the day had barely begun.

* * *

John's birthday arrived amidst a case. So John spent most of his day darting around attempting to solve the case he'd planned to call 'The Serial Vicar' for the ever popular blog. Any opportunity of travel meant something excellent though, and that was that he could use the Triumph. He loved that bike, and he loved the man more who gave it to him. At around seven in the evening, after a particularly hectic day Sherlock had to leave John's side. He claimed that he needed to go back to one of the murder scenes, but John hoped it was something to do with his birthday. A little white lie never hurt no body after all. They shared a quick kiss and Sherlock wished John the millionth "happy birthday" with a twinkle in his eye, as Sherlock walked away John watched him, and admittedly stared momentarily at Sherlock's behind before being shaken back into the room, of which apparently the whole of Scotland Yard had been staring at them. John couldn't give two shits. This was the best day of his life. Around half an hour later, and with no text from Sherlock, John took it upon himself to leave the investigation team. He received several "have a nice birthday evening" from familiar faces, to which he said thanks, but all he could think about was what Sherlock may have in store. He could live in hope right? He left through the swivel doors and almost immediately climbed aboard the Triumph. John put his helmet on, and slid Sherlocks precariously onto the handlebars. Its start up noise that ripped the air would never cease to sound incredible. The sound rippled up John's spine and made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. 221b sat homely in the darkening night and the air was much colder than this morning. With the triumph parked outside, and helmets in hand, John entered his home and shouted Sherlock's name all the way up the stairs. There was no reply. John felt a niggling in his stomach, the same he had on his way to a new case, there was a mystery to be had here. What lay on their living room table was another parcel, not dissimilar to the one he's received before, except this was bigger. Just like a month to the day, John ripped it open with sheer eagerness. Inside where forty-four sprayed green roses. Forty four bleeding roses. Forty four roses for a forty four year old man. John couldn't believe eyes. They went everywhere. So the green rose was important to figure out then. On closer inspection there were what looked like burn marks in some of them. Sharp brown lines that criss crossed against one another. On even closer inspection, where John had the roses practically touching his eyes, he noticed that they were numbered. Near the top of the stem, underneath a single petal, there were numbers, from one to forty four. John began to excitedly order them once the discovery had been made. A word began to make itself out of the patterned scorch lines.

_Climb to Prim_

Prim? Prim meant improper. Climb to improper? That didn't make sense. John knelt on the floor completely befuddled by the perfectly aligned green flowers. 'Come on John think think think.' John crossed his arms and sucked in his top lip to help him think. Prim Prim Prim Prim Prim. What was Prim. 'Why a rose?' He thought. 'Why a green rose more importantly? Is that more importantly?' Rose Prim. Then it all came together all at once. _Primrose Hill._ It was an open park in London. Sprayed green for a green open space. So the Rose was for romance. The longer that time went on the more that John discovered Sherlock was an absolute sucker. It had a steep hill with a viewpoint at its peak of the whole of London's skyline. Name an iconic London building, you'll be able to see it from the top of that hill. And just like that, John grabbed one of the roses, threw on his jacket and bolted down the stairs leaving the door to 221b blissfully open. Besides it was only Mrs. Hudson who would be able to go through that open door, and she was there practically every day anyway.

* * *

The Triumph did him proud. Frankly from Baker Street he could have walked, but the bike looked at him and he couldn't resist, crumbling to its temptations. He was at the gates of Primrose hill in all of six minutes. One problem though. The park was locked close. Of course it was, it was nearing eight o'clock. Then John remembered, the padlock in the August parcel. It really was private. Sherlock Holmes had rented out Primrose Hill. How on earth had he managed that? It undoubtedly would have had something to do with Mycroft. This was proven true when John could see a bright light beaming towards the night sky from the peak. It's origin was blocked by a collection of trees. John couldn't believe the extent Sherlock had gone to. Actually he could. A month ago he thought this all very un-Sherlock, but the drama and sexiness of it all, Bucks fizz at breakfast, a motorbike that roared and a private hill with the night London skyline. Very Sherlock. And thank god it was. He needed to up his game for Sherlocks birthday next year. So how does he get in? He had no key, there was no break in the fence. Then he remembered the burnt message. _Climb to Prim_. Climb the fence. This was becoming more and more Sherlock by the second. So that is exactly what John did. First he flung his helmet over the fence, and it landed with a light pat upon the Grass. Then putting the green rose inbetween his teeth, he finally began his ascent. He placed one foot on the first Horizontal bar and heaved himself up. Using his hands he grabbed the highest and final horizontal bar and proceeded to steady himself to place his right foot upon it. On carefully pulling himself upright he swung his left foot and placed it on the other side of the fence. Now he was precariously close to hitting his nether regions upon the dull tops of the bars that supposedly acted as a deterrent. He needed to act fast here. Placing his hands tight around the bar, currently at an awkward angle, he swung the right foot to meet with the left, before manipulating his now dangling body so that it faced towards the street rather than the hill. Then just like that, still rose between his teeth, he let go of the bar and dropped softly onto the ground. He brushed off his jacket, more out of accomplishment rather than need. He hadn't even broken into a sweat. 'Not bad for a forty four year old,' he thought. Now it was time to ascend the hill. He held the rose in his left hand, his helmet in his right and butterflies rippling in his belly. What if he'd got it all wrong. What if this was some other private event? Self-doubt was John's worst enemy. He walked with a wicked determination, ignoring all those uncontrollable thoughts that never seemed to want to leave, no matter how much he tried to force them.

On rearing to the top, he saw a sight that would stay with him until his dying day. It was a teepee. Sherlock Holmes had had someone build a teepee on the very top of Primrose hill. The beam of light was shooting out of the opening at the top, and it's white light melded into the dark blue as if in greeting, which was beginning to show it's full cosmological potential. It was silent, whoever lay inside the tent, they were waiting in hush. Before entering the tent, John turned round to face the London skyline. He had frequented Primrose Hill several times before, but always during the day. It was even more breathtaking at night. John began to laugh, hysterically laugh. He had never felt so grateful in all his life. What a day. What a fucking day, and his actual birthday celebration had not even begun yet. He hoped there would be some food. As he watched the distant Big Ben bell chime, his stomach rumbled in unison. There had to at least be cake, surely. On the left he could see, the Olympic Park way back at the horizon, next was the financial district; canary wharf with the Gherkin in its full alien shape. Alongside it was a new build, known emphatically as the 'walkie-talkie.' St. Paul's sat enshrouded by the sky-scapers, and the thought that it was once the highest build in London until recently, demonstrated the real change cities had fast become. To encapsulate that, the present tallest building in London, the Shard sat just to the right of the ancient Cathedral. The BT Tower, the Big Ben and the houses of Parliament at Westminster could only just be seen, the London Eye was particularly catching, and from so far away it seemed to not be spinning at all. The ghost of battersea power station stood devoured by cranes that marked domestic progress. The only thing John couldn't see that sprung to mind was the O2 Arena that sat down the river in Greenwich. It was a good night to be alive. John's laughter at how fantastical his life had become had apparently made a bit of a stir inside the teepee. As he walked to enter he could clearly hear Sherlock's manic voice saying as quiet as possible, "he's figured it out, he's here, everyone ready?" John certainly felt ready, especially to see the man that voice was attached to. With another deep breath, he pushed the piece of material using the arm still holding his helmet. He was met with a bellow of an expected song of "Happy Birthday." It was horrendously out of tune but the voices rose to the roof of the teepee as if like the light, they desperately wanted to also meet the stars. There was in fact british bunting wrapped all around the tent walls, small fire lights sat on the cushioned floor encased safely in glass lamps. It provided some magic to the already native tent. There was a small table with a few humble gifts and several bottles of various ales sat on the table, as well as a huge bottle of Champagne. John immediately caught eyes with Sherlock, he held both the rose and his helmet in the air, and Sherlock had to practically stop his singing for the giggle that forced its way out of his throat. He did not remember ever being as happy as he felt as of right now. And it was all because of John. His Doctor, his soldier, his blogger, his colleague, his best friend, his lover, his husband. Every side mattered. And now he was standing in a teepee opposite him, with a shit-eating grin, a helmet for his Triumph and a rose. Sherlock had wanted to see this since January. He could not wait to plan Johns next birthday. 

As the song came to its end, John finally processed who had attended such an evening of shenanigans, there was Mrs. Hudson, his Sister Harry, Harry's girlfriend, whose name completely evaded him, Molly Hooper, another boyfriend of hers, this one called Jack (amazing how they always managed to resemble his husband,) and finally Mycroft and his darling Detective Inspector Lestrade. What a wonderful bunch of people, John thought. As the song finally ended, to Johns self-admitting relief, he chuckled like a school kid, which in turn made the whole teepee laugh. "Well I have to say what a frankly fucking ridiculous evening this is set to be," everyone laughed some more, "but I have to say, after I figured it out," John held the rose sky high and continued, "I am beyond happy to meet you all at the peak of this hill. I would like to thank Sherlock here for providing me with the greatest birthday I believe in all of London's history" there was a collective snicker and an element of awe at John's words, now John spoke to Sherlock and to Sherlock alone, "Sherlock you are without doubt the most unbelievable human my world could have asked for, I have no idea how you have pulled anything that has happened today off, frankly, if I had not have met you I can see my world being a much darker place," Sherlock dipped his head, his eyes welling and his cheeks reddened. There was a smattering of applause for Sherlock's efforts, and then John said to round it all off "now I have deduced that there is some alcohol to be had." There was a big cheer and with that the novelty Champagne was opened and a night of booze, food, cake, gifts, discussions and London at night was had. It was perfect. John learned amazing things about the people he loved and respected the most that night. One by one people had to leave and soon it was just Sherlock and John alone. John had not had much of a chance to actually speak to his husband and the first thing he did once Mycroft and Lestrade where down the hill was kiss Sherlock so passionately, that Sherlock thought he might actually faint. On separating Sherlock tried to keep it cool but utterly failed, his words became a series of slurs, and John knew Sherlock wasn't _that_ drunk. They laughed at Sherlock's evidence at being completely bowled off his feet. It was charming and gave John butterflies right in the pit of his stomach, and made his heart beat like a hummingbird was trapped in his chest. They had the whole of London stretched out in front of them. The city that never sleeps was playing out before their eyes. They held each other close and watched the lights in silence for a while. Thanking and appreciating the city that had brought them together, and now bound them in another year of their lives. Sherlock then checked his watch without losing Johns valued touch and said, "John you have twenty-five minutes left of your birthday, what do you want to do?" John loosened by alcohol and sheer joy said flirtatiously, "I've got some ideas" before proceeding to pull Sherlock into the one night only private teepee of Primrose Hill.

            

                             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://m.fanfiction.net/s/11464105/1/Wibbly-Wobbly-Shenanigans
> 
> This is the link to Grace's chapter, it involves Lestrade creating the perfect birthday for the love of his life, Mycroft Holmes, enjoy x


	2. Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourself for the greatest proposal the johnlock world has ever seen. (At least I hope so.)  
> John battles through purchasing a ring, the asking of blessing from Sherlock's parents and finally the proposal itself. Enjoy. This chapter was written by @watson_to_my_holmes (on insta)
> 
> If you want to read the Mystrade engagement Chapter written by Grace (@bakerstreetkid on insta) this is the link, https://m.fanfiction.net/s/11464105/1/Wibbly-Wobbly-Shenanigans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all aboard the mother effing feels train

John had never felt so nervous. Even getting off that plane in Baghdad wasn't this terrifying. He was perusing the famous street of Hatton Gardens, which almost exclusively sold engagement rings, in central London looking fervently through every window, trying to seek out 'the one.' The right ring. It was of course a case that made him finally want to take the plunge with Sherlock, a man he'd considered his boyfriend for the past two and a half years. Sherlock preferred the term, 'life partner' which encouraged John all the more to finally seal the deal. They were on a case which involved them actually having to storm a wedding to which Sherlock had to shout "I object!" It was like something out of a film noir. The bride it turned out was a member of a notorious drug gang in Rio, it was to be with her grooms money that they were going to be able to ship thousands of kilos of pills to America. The pills were not legit, people would have undoubtedly died, not to mention the inevitable murder of the groom to prevent complications. Once again Watson and Holmes saved lives. It was in that moment of being in that church that had John decide it was what he wanted. It hit him just like the coloured ray through the stain glass window. He didn't want to be 'Watson and Holmes' he wanted to just be Watson-Holmes. No longer separated by the triviality of a single word, forever connected. This was the last thing, they were connected in every other way and this was the last one.

When John and Sherlock first started admitting that they were more than friends, Sherlock spoke of marriage as a 'disease' and that monogamy was not possible anymore due to our life spans and the selfish nature of humanity. However, at that point Sherlock had never and was not in love. Now he was, blindingly so. When he had to admit to himself that the things he felt were not due to anything other than love, that 'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth,' he had never felt so terrified. He'd look over at John and his pulse would race and all would want was to see that smile and touch that skin. He thought it would negatively affect his work but it just enhanced it. He worked faster and more efficiently in the sheer need to be alongside John. If a case had them apart he worked tirelessly to solve it just so he could get back to him. And it was, it was the truth, of course it was, Sherlock Holmes was in love with John Watson. Sherlock was afraid that if it was said it might ruin all, he knew that love could cause damage, not only to himself but others, and the idea of hurting John in any capacity made him convulse, but he wanted it, he so wanted it. It took Johns outburst moments after an argument of "For christ sake I love you Sherlock!" that made Sherlock realise that hearing those words and letting them spill out of his own mouth was the only way his world should be. Now to Sherlock, marriage was not worth an opinion. Marrying John would be a privilege, but not marrying him would not make him love John any less. How could it? He was all he ever needed. The night that gay marriage was legalised in Britain, Sherlock and John celebrated, pleased at such a progress. They even left 221b to enjoy the party the city was having that night, where a string of weddings took place in Westminster, Sherlock and John even kissed on Westminster bridge. Sherlock clearly had some like of the notion of marriage was what John took from it.  

As John looked through the windows like an infant staring at a blaze, he remembered the first tells of 'I love you.' Initially they could not stop saying it to one another, after John first blurted it out in a rage he thought they'd avoid saying it to one another because relationships are complicated and love only made the eggshells weaker. However, they lived the opposite, with every confession, whether in hush whisper or full view, it only made them stronger, tighter at the seams. So naturally they said it practically after every second word. "Tea? I love you. Yes, I love you. Breakfast Tea? I love you. Please, milky, I love you." They could not stop themselves. It was an adrenaline kick, unbelievable every time the other said it. It became more and more engrained in their deepest selves, and now they said it when it fit the situation, mostly it was so known it didn't need to be said. John thought of that very morning, he knew trying to hide the fact that he was off to find a ring today would be difficult to hide. Neigh impossible, but John liked a challenge and so far Sherlock had not run away. He'd brought Sherlock a cup of tea, who still sat comfortably in their bed reading the morning papers that were delivered every morning. He was searching for cases, as always. John told him he needed to visit St Barts as they had some of his old word books he wanted back. John figured that telling the truth was the only way to avoid Sherlock figuring it out. So that is what John did, he visited St Barts and did what he told Sherlock he'd do. As he was leaving he had horrifying doubts, was he doing the right thing? Should he just go home? Thankfully however, the stars seemed to align and Mike Stamford walked through the door. The very man who'd introduced them. John didn't believe in signs, but this coincidence definitely gave him confidence. They had a brief chat about normal things, what Sherlock would call 'goldfish behaviour,' they spoke of the weather, things in the news and such, but then John did something strange. As they said farewell and began to walk away from each other, John swivelled round and felt the words ripple out his voice box. "Mike." Stamford turned around and found John on fast approach, on colliding into one another John hugged Mike so tight and Mike clapped him on the back several times, unsure of what to do, he laughed nervously, "you alright Watson?" John pulled out of the hug and then stood in military stance, a little bit in disbelief at what he'd done. Now the next words he spoke were so profound Mike never ceased to think about them on a regular basis until his dying day. "Mike I just want to say thank you for bringing me here all those years ago to introduce me to Sherlock, you did an amazing thing in just introducing us and I will never be able to repay you, I was so alone and I owe you so much." Mike gave an understanding nod, they shook hands and went their separate ways.

Standing in the street that was home to the jewellers, he smiled and was always glad he did that. Then he saw it. 'The one.' He had had ideas about what he wanted it to look like. He knew Sherlock would never appreciate diamonds, so for an engagement ring he thought a pure silver band with an inscription of some kind, then an all gold wedding band for them both on the big day. John didn't want to get ahead of himself mind you. He walked into the jewellers, and the beep the door made on his entrance had everyone in the shop give him a quick look. Almost immediately a young Mediterranean looking chap was there to offer his help, "morning Sir, anything we can assist you in?" John swallowed nervously, no turning back now. He spoke with some hesitance. "Yes, there is an, erm, there's a silver band in the window, Cartier, I was wondering if I could get it engraved?" The man nodded and they walked the short distance to the window, he asked which one and John pointed to it. "Ah lovely choice sir, is it a gift or.." John answered quickly, "engagement actually." To this reply the assistant became all of a sudden very excited indeed, "Oh how wonderful! Well Sir if I can interest you in the diamonds in the other window perhaps? Girls do traditionally like a diamond for their engagement ring no?" For once someone actually thought John was straight, how ironic it was whilst buying an engagement ring. He couldn't wait to tell Sherlock about this after he'd proposed. _After he'd proposed_. The thought shook his bones. John gave a witty reply, "yes but boys traditionally don't." The assistant got a stern look from his boss and for a moment he was very panicked, "oh do forgive me I do apologise," John was quick to comfort him, "oh no please, honestly it is fine, easy mistake." With that they were comfortable once more, the silver band was plucked out of the window and brought to the counter, "what would you like the inscription to read sir?" John took a deep breath.

* * *

The small velvet box weighed heavy in Johns coat. It was too obvious in his jean pocket and he knew Sherlock would make the deduction as soon as he walked through their front door. It was drizzling outside and water dripped from his hair onto his brow. As John entered shaking off the rain saying, "hiya" Sherlock was on his feet from his thinking position to the bathroom, in an instant he was back mopping John's damp face with a small towel. John giggled, feeling like a little kid who'd got custard all over his face. Once his face was dry Sherlock leant down and give his life partner a gentle kiss upon the mouth. John wanted this second to last forever. With the help of that ring, maybe it could. When Sherlock pulled away John asked, "what was that for?" Sherlock gave a moment to consider and then decided upon, "I simply couldn't help myself." He swanned towards the kitchen and made a demonstration with his hand gesturing to a plate upon the table, "Mrs Hudson brought us some sandwiches." John said a "lovely" and went to grab what looked like a ploughman sandwich. Sherlocks face contorted and he lopped his head to one side, he watched John tuck in immediately and concluded that in John's effort to fill his mouth, there was something he was fighting to not tell him. He began investigating, "get your textbooks from barts?" John nodded, mouth still full. Sherlock continued, now walking around the kitchen table, encircling John as he did so, "anything happen or..." John shook his head, arguably too much, having just taken another bite of sandwich. Now he tested out his theory, "my parents have invited us round for Sunday brunch, I would normally have said no, but..." John swallowed his mouthful quickly, his head perked up fast and he said hurriedly, "no no that is perfect, yup aha, yeah this sunday? Not you know I mean because just because it would be you know we have nothing to do this sunday is all." Well that was utterly unconvincing Sherlock thought, so John was thinking of weddings was he? Parents permission. How old fashioned. Sherlock tried to battle the smile that could not be prevented from spreading across his face. Marrying John Watson would be an absolute honour. He walked towards John and wiped the crumbs from his lip using his thumb before kissing him once again, this time slower, more appreciative, he noted the salty taste from the ham and the bitterness from the pickle. On parting once again, Johns pupils where huge and his eyes wide, "what was _that_ one for?" Sherlock kissed Johns cheek softly before saying, "oh same reason as before. I must go make a phone call." With that Sherlock went to their bedroom and left John for a while, he needed to ring his parents to invite himself and John over for Sunday brunch.  

* * *

John and Sherlock got the train to his parents house. Sherlock noticed that John was nervous the whole ride there. He shook his legs up and down, bouncing in tune to the train, Sherlock wanted to comfort him, tell him he knew, of course he would say yes, of course he'd spend the rest of his life with him. He wanted to remind him of his brothers and Lestrades' permission to marry, engagement and wedding which began last year when then holidayed in France. He wanted to tell him it was fine, but it had to be a surprise, of course it had to be. He thought of surprising John with an engagement ring also but that is exactly what happened with his brother and Lestrade, this had to be theirs, their engagement moment, not replicating or impeding anything that has happened before. It had to play out in its own accord. So Sherlock would watch John be nervous for a while longer yet. Meanwhile arguably worse a fate, John was living those nerves. Of course Sherlock's mum and dad would say yes. Of course they would. Mycroft got his yes, why wouldn't John. They were in the same world even if it was from different parents.

Mycroft and Sherlock must be very different as children John thought, maybe they wanted different things for their children. This self doubt had kept John awake ever since he'd come home with the ring. As he sat on the train he just told himself repetitively 'It's all fine it's all fine it's all fine.' They got off the train and were greeted rather charmingly by the Holmes couple. Sherlock's mother was particularly pleased that both her boys were in such fine relationships. She'd never seen both of them so happy. This in turn had helped her overall happiness greatly. As well as her husbands. All was right in the world, and that was largely due to Lestrade and John. She embraced him tightly on his step off the train. John had always felt accepted by Sherlock's parents, if anything they felt like they were the ones that had to try, not John. After their greetings to one another, Sherlock's mother linked arms with John and they idly chatted all the way to the car. Sherlock smiled at the sight. He really did admire his parents, he couldn't believe they're unending support all these years. "So good to see you John" Mother Holmes said, "It's good to see you too," said John squeezing her hand, "so nice of you to invite us over." She pulled her head back in confusion as they walked, "well if that is what Sherlock's calling it fine." John pushed down his brow not understanding her words, "what do you mean?" She laughed in reply, "he rang us up dear, rather frantic that you and he must come over on Sunday, we both know he is an odd one though, albeit we love him for it, so no need to worry." Then John remembered, " _I must go make a phone call,"_ then John realised the questioning that came just before it. So Sherlock knew. He knew John was here to ask permission, he knew it would be more than difficult to hide it from Sherlock and it proved so. Yet, Sherlock made the call. Sherlock wanted a proposal. John nearly skipped and could have shouted with joy at the top of his lungs in that car park. Oh my god he wanted a proposal. Well now he knew that Sherlock knew he needed to up his game. He needed to give him the best god damn proposal the world has ever seen. As John stepped into the back seat of the car that is what he decided. Sherlock slid in beside him and John grabbed his hand before Sherlock had even shut his door. Their fingers intertwined and Sherlock gave an expression of a little confusion, but there was no movement to pull his hand away. Sherlock's parents sat in front and they began to speak to one another about what needed doing for food and other goldfish things, meanwhile John and Sherlock held hands and shared similar thoughts.

* * *

Brunch was pleasant, and John always did like their cottage. They were here at christmas and it felt so homely John was close to asking to move in. In the April air there was a distinct feel of promise to the place. Sherlock's mother wanted to show Sherlock progress they'd made to their out house building, she needed Sherlock's 'talent' as his parents called it, to inform them of any problems which may arise in the future and how to prevent and or fix them in future with regards to this building. One day they wanted to completely reinvent the place and rent it out to earn some extra cash, it was a project that had gone on for years. Sherlock insisted that he did not need his mothers assistance, saying that he knew where it was 'for goodness sake, mother stay here, entertain John, I'll be back shortly.' Sherlock left John with his parents in full knowledge of what would be said. Of course for John, this was it. This was the only opportunity he'd get to ask. "So John, how has work been? Any interesting cases or shenanigans you and Sherlock have got into?" asked Sherlock's dad, John chose his words carefully, "of course yes, we erm, we had a case recently about an American politician which caused a lot of concern, you may have heard about it, of course our brilliant Sherlock patched it all up quickly without problem, and erm, actually, there is something I would like to ask you both." John saw them both tense up. Mother Holmes put her cup of tea down on its saucer and placed it upon the table, she knew what was coming and she was thrilled. This had happened before of course with Lestrade, even if he at the time was not aware of Mycrofts impending proposal only weeks later. She was always a lot more confident that Mycroft would find someone though, Sherlock was a different story. Yet the day had arrived. "Ask away" she puffed out excited at even the thought, "Well, I mean erm, the thing is..." Sherlocks father didn't even need John to finish, "Of course John, ask him." John pressed his right fingers to his mouth, pushing the unavoidable smile under his tips. John could confide in them now, he wasn't alone in this any longer, "I mean do you, do you think he'll..." An ecstatic mother almost shouted, "say yes?! Oh John of course! You mean the entire world to him John!"

John felt himself welling up, his eyes were stinging up and he felt that tingle in his nose. He tried to swallow it but he just ended up laughing instead. Soon they were all on their feet, John and his soon to be mother-in-law squeezed him so tight, he could hardly breathe. He shook hands fervently with his equally soon to be father-in-law, but it wasn't enough so they both guffawed and shared a brief hug. Now all John needed to do was ask the man in question.

* * *

Sherlock awoke with a start, something wasn't right, he could feel it. Some how his world was all wrong, something valuable missing. "John?" His John was no longer in their bed, he had no where to be, Sherlock knew that. Yet he wasn't here. Sherlock jumped out of bed and slipped on Johns grey T-shirt that he'd taken off the night before that now lay in a crumple on the floor. It was a bit short for Sherlock and it ended at the top of his pelvis, but as he pulled it over his head he could smell nothing but John and it made his absence more urgent. They'd visited Sherlock's parents around three weeks ago now and Sherlock came to the conclusion that maybe he was wrong. Maybe John really was just still nervous about seeing his parents, maybe he wasn't asking for a blessing. Sherlock wasn't disappointed, after all, it may still lie in their future, and even if it did not they would still be with one another for the foreseeable future, if not till one of them died, and at the heart of it that is what marriage was anyway. Sherlock waddled through silent 221b in John's worn shirt and his own boxers, shouting Johns name, "John?" The flat was silent, he definitely was not here. Sherlock was mildly concerned and on the way to grab his phone to text John, he saw an envelope with Johns doctor sprawl across its front. Sherlock revalued everything he'd just thought, this was it. This was the beginning of the proposal. He just felt it. The words across the front read, "Dear Sherlock Holmes, a mystery awaits." Sherlock smiled, John definitely knew how to woo him. He smelt the envelope, thick white paper that smelt of their flat, taken from the box of envelopes they kept then in a draw on the premises, and the ink on the paper came for a fact from the pen that now sat unassuming on their mantlepiece. Sherlock opened it carefully, to no avail, for what slipped out was what appeared to be mud, earth spilt all over the floor in crumb form. A clue. He used a long index finger alone to fish out the note inside. The action pulled more earth from its container, but the mess did not bother Sherlock at all. It was a small red piece of paper, and with the same pen as before the words in Johns writing said 

> _I wish I had the healing words,_
> 
> _To wrap around the quiet_
> 
> _Wish I knew some magic ways,_
> 
> _To lighten up your night_

Sherlock read the words again, moving his mouth as he went. He knew this, how did he know this already. This was a poem for funerals, how did he know that? He read it again, obvious, it's a comfort poem, someone who is no longer here. A poem of separation. John wasn't here. They were separated, so far Sherlock was with it. He thought at how John might think. This was a huge deal to John, he would want Sherlock to get it and get it quick. Sherlock looked at the earth. He knelt down and assessed it, squeezing it between thumb and forefinger, it was London soil for sure; high density, geo-chemical top soil. So John wanted Sherlock to go to the place of this earth, this particular soil. Maybe something was buried? Sherlock sat at his desk and opened up the lap top, note placed down beside him. He googled the first line of the poem and the words 'London Park.' Immediately the first link that came up was an article about a poem on a bench. he opened it up and their it was. The location of the next clue. A bench in Regents Park.

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Sherlock sprinted to his room and flailed until clothes somehow ended up on his body. He hopped on his shoes, not bothering with socks and sprinted out the door. The note was firmly in his Belstaff pocket and he ran the entire way. In the photo online there was a path, grass, a lamp post and a bin all in site. He just needed to find the right bench. He went from bench to bench on one side of the pond, in which people were happily using pedalos and enjoying the sparse sun spring had to offer, completely unaware of the adrenalin that was roaring around Sherlock's being. On the other side of the pond, he could see one stand alone bench. Behind it was a path, grass, a lamp post and a bin. Without a breath he bolted his way round to it, and sure enough the golden plaque was there, he read the short poem aloud not caring if anyone heard. He walked around the bench, checking for any signs John may have left. It was not until he turned his head and checked under the bench did he see a red envelope cello taped to one of the beams. He pulled it off with care. He opened this one up with less patience than the last, excited at where this was taking him.

> _Poem to an Unnameable Man BY DOROTHEA LASKY_
> 
> _You have changed me already. I am a fireball That is hurtling towards the sky to where you are You can choose not to look up but I am a giant orange ball That is throwing sparks upon your face Oh look at them shake Upon you like a great planet that has been murdered by change O too this is so dramatic this shaking Of my great planet that is bigger than you thought it would be So you ran and hid Under a large tree. She was graceful, I think That tree although soon she will wither Into ten black snakes upon your throat And when she does I will be wandering as I always am A graceful lady that is part museum Of the voices of the universe everyone else forgets I will hold your voice in a little box And when you come upon me I won’t look back at you You will feel a hand upon your heart while I place your voice back Into the heart from where it came from And I will not cry also Although you will expect me to I was wiser too than you had expected For I knew all along you were mine_
> 
> _The Lab in which you first deduced me, Molly has a present for you_

Molly. St Barts. Sherlock ran out the nearest exit and hailed a taxi. He twiddled his thumbs the entire journey. He read that poem over and over, grasping the eternity in it, the prevalence of their beginning, the fact that this was as big as the universe hurtling around them. Sherlock was pleased to be the unnameable man. He threw twenty quid at the driver and bounded out onto the pavement, leaving the taxi door wide open, much to the cabbies annoyance. He had never been so fast to get to that lab before, he forced the door open so hard that it swung back and made a mark in the wall. "Molly!" he shouted, "Oh hi Sherlock, John left something for you this morning, it's.." Sherlock already had it in his hands before Molly could even tell him where it was. Another envelope, this one now yellow, he ripped it open and this note read;

> _When it rains, it pours_
> 
> _It's like opening every doors_
> 
> _Whizzing wind, Whispering breeze_
> 
> _Makes your senses at ease._
> 
> _When it rains it pours_
> 
> _It's like knocking every doors_
> 
> _Thunder here, lightning there_
> 
> _Awaking your sense somewhere._
> 
> _When it rains it pours_
> 
> _It's like sweeping every floors_
> 
> _Homes are wet, walls have tears_
> 
> _Taking every dirt and fears._
> 
> _-Angelo_

 

"A place of dirt and fears? Why is Angelo underlined?" Sherlock mused, Molly said a quiet "hmm?" in question of what Sherlock said, Sherlock lifted his head, "did John say where he was going Molly?" Molly shrugged and said frustrating slow, "no where specific, he said he was going to get some food." Then it clicked. Sherlock smiled and said, "brilliant." Molly was confused, "what is?" Sherlock headed for the door, "you Molly, you're brilliant." Then just like that he was gone, Molly was blushing so hard she broke into a sweat. As Sherlock left the building and hailed a taxi, he informed the driver, "Angelos the restaurant please, you know it?" The driver nodded. Sherlock felt his heart beating in his chest and he thought if this is where John would be or if there was another clue to be had. He paid the driver, and this time took his change. He walked in and Angelo greeted him as enthusiastically as ever, "Angelo where did John sit?" Angelo was confused, then he understood, "oh your little man friend! He sat at that table." He pointed to a table in the corner near the back. Two women were sat there but Sherlock could not have cared less. He waded over and got down on his knees, looking at the underside of the table, not even seeing the short skirts before him, irregardless of the complaints from the two women, he searched. As quick as Sherlock was on the floor he stood once again and this time he held a green envelope. Sherlock noticed a pattern, White, Red, Yellow and now Green. It was a rainbow. A paraphrased one, but it was there. The next would be blue and then purple most likely. This one read;

> _TWENTY bridges from Tower to Kew - Wanted to know what the River knew, Twenty Bridges or twenty-two, For they were young, and the Thames was old And this is the tale that River told;_
> 
> _The Bridge in which you kissed me on a historic night_

Sherlock beamed, that was indeed a pleasant memory. The first segment was from a poem called 'The Rivers Tale,' his mother read it to Mycroft and he as children, it was about the River Thames and had Sherlock dreaming of London from a young age. The bridge on the river Thames that John referred to was the Westminster Bridge on the night gay marriage was legalised. Sherlock left, he had begun to slow down, simply to appreciate this journey John had set him on. He thanked Angelo and left. At Westminster Bridge there was a blue envelope flying in the spring breeze attached to a piece of long fishing line. Many tourists ogled at the thing, perplexed at how it was flying like a kite and Sherlock could see it from the other side of the bridge. As Sherlock pulled it up, he thought of the fact that this may be the penultimate clue. He opened this one slowly;

> _Home, for my heart still calls me; Home, through the danger zone; Home, whatever befalls me, I will sail again to my own! Wolves of the sea are hiding Closely along the way, Under the water biding Their moment to rend and slay. Black is the eagle that brands them, Black are their hearts as the night, Black is the hate that sends them To murder but not to fight. Flower of the German Culture, Boast of the Kaiser's Marine, Choose for your emblem the vulture, Cowardly, cruel, obscene! Forth from her sheltered haven Our peaceful ship glides slow, Noiseless in flight as a raven, Gray as a hoodie crow. She doubles and turns in her bearing, Like a twisting plover she goes; The way of her westward faring Only the captain knows. In a lonely bay concealing She lingers for days, and slips At dusk from her covert, stealing Thro' channels feared by the ships. Brave are the men, and steady, Who guide her over the deep,-- British mariners, ready To face the sea-wolf's leap. Lord of the winds and waters, Bring our ship to her mark, Safe from this game of hide-and-seek With murderers in the dark!_
> 
> _Homeward Bound, Henry Van Dyke_

John wanted Sherlock to come home, come home to him. Away from the war zone of London they fought together, away from danger. This poem was promise that regardless of what war lay outside their front door, they'd always make it home to one another. Sherlock made that silent promise, his last vow. Hailing the last taxi, he climbed in and said "221b Baker Street please." The whole journey he thought only of John, only of all the days they'd spent together. He walked around his mind palace finding the memories of John. The ridiculous adventures of two men who were now more dependent upon one another than either thought possible. He was so lost in his wants of John the taxi driver had to shout him out of it, "sir? Sir, we're here mate." Sherlock paid, his pockets full of envelopes, and to add to the collection, under the knocker rested a purple envelope. Rainbow now complete. Sherlock giggled at that touch John made. He opened it before opening the door. The notes contents made Sherlock laugh so hard that he cried right there and then on the pavement.

> _You know what's coming you soppy bastard_

John watched the love of his life from the window laugh hysterically and it made him feel so grateful that this, this exact moment is where his entire life had led him to. A purple envelope and his laughing detective. Sherlock came through the door and walked calmly up the stairs, his cheeks still damp from his laughter induced tears. The front door they usually left wide open, was closed. John was definitely home then. Sherlock felt butterflies in his belly, it felt like they were meeting each other for the first time. Sherlock pushed open the door slowly and he heard the creak go in one ear and right out the other. Sherlock wanted to remember the site that greeted him for the rest of his days. John was knelt on one knee, and he said two words Sherlock could hardly comprehend, "welcome home." With that, without losing eye contact John reached into his pocket and pulled out the velvet box with the silver band bearing an inscription. "Sherlock Holmes, will you do me the honour of marrying me?" Sherlock knelt down on the floor in front of John, unable to speak, for the first time in his life Sherlock was completely speechless. He kissed John hard and John figured that meant yes, Sherlock slid his right hand and used it to gently squeeze the back of Johns neck. As they pulled their faces away from one another, Sherlock looked at the ring and with his free hand, John wiped the tears from Sherlocks cheek using a soft thumb. Sherlock pulled the ring out of box and the inscription inside made him so happy tears continued to roll down his cheeks and meet with the upward curve of his mouth. He reconnected eyes with John and finally answered, "of course John, of course, there's no other answer, we're home." They shared another merry kiss and now tears began to roll down Johns face too. This was actually happening. John slid the ring onto Sherlocks finger to hide the words that only his skin could see, _He's a strange child._

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you understand the strange child reference you are the most hard core BBC Sherlockian the world has ever known. If not please don't be afraid to comment below if you would like me to explain, hope you enjoyed it x


	3. Johnlock Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fluffiest most wonderful Johnlock wedding you'll ever read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has been a wee while, I have been working on this beast. So hope you like it x I shall post Grace's mystrade wedding link very soon!!

Lestrade heard the clatter of a letter hit the welcome mat. It was around seven in the morning, his husband was still in bed and Greg was spinning a tea bag with the back of a teaspoon when he heard the welcomed noise. Whilst heading towards the sound he yawned large and rubbed his eyes with an open palm. Such a letter was unassuming. The envelope was a light brown and had no suggestion towards its innards. It was addressed to them both, _Lestrade-Holmes,_ it had been over a year since they wed, but Greg still felt a tingle every time he saw his new name out in writing. So Lestrade flipped it over and opened it. Inside was a beautiful black card. It had a cream sticker over its center, of which read “You are invited.” It divided in the middle and so opened like a wardrobe or a cabinet of some kind.  Greg opened it and found a black piece of thread attached on opposing sides of the cards. There was a circle in the thread. On opening it fully, a knot was formed by the tightening of its length. Greg had just tied a knot. _Tied the knot._ A wedding invite. ‘Genius’ Greg thought and he only knew of one couple that’d add such a detail. 

The middle section of the card was decorated with beautifully drawn trees atop white paper. Across the top was a penned banner which read, “Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.” Which, Mycroft knew was a quote from Hamlet. Greg had no idea but he thought it sounded nice. Underneath in a different fancier font it read “Join us in the woods.” Below that in smaller yet similar writing, it read;

 

You’re invited to the Union of

Captain John Watson

And

Detective Sherlock Holmes

 

Delamere Forest, Cheshire, Chester

‘A tent fit for Royalty’

This coming October the 12th

Two pm

Dress well with practical shoes

Dinner will be provided as well as several surprises

Please send back the RSVP slip and if you’d like to make any song requests, don’t hasten to add those to the RSVP form, thank you and see you soon.

 

“Mycroft,” Greg shouted up the stairs, “we’ve been invited to a wedding.” A groggy voice replied faceless, “whose?” Greg smiled, this would be good, “your brothers.” Greg heard Mycroft fall out of their bed and he laughed all the way to the fridge of where he claimed milk for his still spinning tea. 

* * *

 

 John and Sherlock woke as they always did; side by side. Sherlock in the night had slipped further down under the duvet and so there was mild confusion that he was in such darkness at waking up. His nose was pressed against John’s ribcage and he breathed deep for his first breath of the day. The action awoke John and instead of pulling Sherlock up above the waves of duck feathers, John joined him under the covers. They lay face to face and shared the same thoughts. First words shared that day were from John, “fuck Sherlock, we’re getting married today.” They just began to laugh in their shared fort of ridiculous existence. They did consider the traditional ‘not spending the night before your wedding together,’ however it didn’t feel right. If you want to spend forever together, why spend a single night apart. True, they were not in their own bed in London; they were in a ridiculously lavish hotel, something that Sherlock insisted on, and John obviously welcomed even though he thought every inch of it over the top. As John pulled back the silk curtains, he could see out across the woodland he would be married in that very afternoon. There was a mist in the distance, topping the trees so that the leaves nestled with the fog emblazoned sky. It was adding the mystery they had hoped for, especially for such an event. They were hoping it would not rain, it was not forecast to but an England in the midst of October, it was more than possible. John watched the clouds move as fast as the fog and felt as if the cold air he could not feel beyond the windowpane inhabit his body. He felt strangely calm. Sherlock on the other hand, was not so.

He darted around the hotel room as frantic as a Jack Russell chasing a rabbit. John watched him from the window, “Sherlock it’s all fine, what are you worried about?” Sherlock lifted his head from his case in which he was throwing things from, “the rings?! Where are the rings?!” John walked calmly to Sherlock’s case and unzipped a small pocket on its front; he pulled out the velvet box they’d both ogled at since spying them in the window. Simple gold bands, engraved on the inside one read ‘Watson’ and one read ‘Holmes.’ They would wear their spouse’s maiden name, forever pressed against the skin of the marital finger. “Sherlock we did most of what needed doing yesterday, it’s okay, today is our day.” John kissed him lightly on the cheek and Sherlock instantly calmed down. He still went over everything that happened yesterday in his mind like a lightning bolt had struck him where he stood. Sherlock had never felt this nervous.

Penultimate day preparations were admittedly hectic; Sherlock was at the venue by ten in the morning ensuring the image in his mind palace was becoming a reality. Every shred had to be perfect. Exactly as imagined, the only thing Sherlock disliked about the whole thing was that other people had to be there. Why did other people have to be there? When John had proposed, they initially talked about just flying to the Niagara Falls and getting married on a small tourist boat in ridiculous blue waterproof ponchos. Just them, some one who could marry the pair and they would use the person driving the boat as their witness. John was very close to booking flights, but then Sherlock stopped him because he admitted that waterfalls for some reason gave him a bad premonition. “Ya’ what?” was all of Johns questioning, “Listen, John you always remind me to be aware of my feelings, I just don’t like waterfalls I don’t know why.” So they then thought about parents, and siblings and ‘friends.’ Thus deciding, that maybe they should have other humans actually their. Sherlock did complain about it for a short while but John teased him that he ‘did not like waterfalls and that was your only chance.’ They were at least going to do it their way. Outside, out of London, away from their beloved warzone that brought oxygen and adrenaline to their blood.

Somewhere with mystery was Sherlock’s want, of course John was ever the romantic and so wanted that aspect too. So a forest. Specifically an autumn forest with changing leaves that, were soon to fall to make the earth new again. Not any old woods though of course, no no no, Delamere Forest. They were to wed on Hunger Hill, one of the deepest and oldest parts of the woodland. It was once an exclusive hunting ground for the Earl of Cheshire, and if anyone trespassed or poached, they would be hung from the tree they were usually found hiding behind. However, the real mystery lay hundreds of years after, when the forest no longer belonged to anyone, a woman named Maria Hollingsworth moved from Germany to England after her husband passed away. Her son remained in Germany training to be a carpenter, however her daughter came with her to England. The mother and daughter supposedly made themselves a home in Delamere, out of the ribs of a whale, found by a local anthropologist on his ventures who had no need of them any longer. For years they had little contact from the son, until one day a letter arrived from him stating that he would join them in the forest. Months went passed, and mother and daughter thought maybe he was not coming after all, however one morning; Maria awoke to strange noises over the hill that enclosed them and their whalebone house. She climbed the hill and hid behind a tree. She witnessed two men, strangers to her, digging a big hole in the ground. What lay beside the hole was a large and oddly shaped parcel. Maria immediately thought it to be her son, the son who had never arrived. She felt in her soul that it was he; her son had been murdered, so she wept and wept and wept. Her daughter, sibling of the supposed deceased could not accept her mother’s ideas, so she endeavored to investigate. She went to the authorities that morning, however on returning to the site of the digging, the package was not there in its shallow grave, many believed it had been thrown into the mere and sunk, with that the investigation came to a halt. A man did arrive, years later, claiming to be Maria’s son, however Maria could not accept it to be him, too estranged and distant from reality, she moved back to Germany, trying to find her once happy state, abandoning her now aging children to the woods. It is said that the ghosts of two abandoned children walk amongst the trees, asking for a Maria. What really happened is still a mystery, no one knows what was in that parcel, and no one knows if the man who did arrive was actually the Hollingsworth boy. It may even just be a legend, but it was a story Sherlock grew up with, and so a place he had always dreamed of visiting. Never did he imagine he would get married here. Let alone get married at all. 

Breakfast was rushed, and Sherlock barely had a mouthful due to how nauseous he felt. John ordered them some Champagne and Orange Juice in the hope of calming Sherlock’s nerves; he loved a Bucks Fizz this man. John was very glad that he had not left Sherlock to his own devices at any stage leading up to this wedding day. He could not imagine how much more frantic Sherlock would have been if he was not there. John started to feel genuine concern, what if Sherlock was getting cold feet; maybe a big showy wedding away from London was not the way they should have gone. As they sat at the breakfast table, surrounded by tables of couples of who kept looking at them, John took Sherlock’s shaky fingers and entwined them into his own. He leant as far across the table as possible, and practically whispered, “Sherlock it’s going to be okay, alright? Is it the fact that there will be other people there today and that you’ll have to speak in front of them?” Sherlock’s brow sunk; almost making his eyes vanish from sight. “No John, well, a bit, but no, it’s just that I don’t want to let you down, this is a big day, our day, my day and yours.” John smiled, and proceeded to loudly scoot his chair round the table so that he could sit closer to his intended. He did not care if people watched him; the most important thing was that it finally made Sherlock smile since coming down for breakfast. He kissed Sherlock’s cheek to comfort for the second time today. Then he said in as quiet a voice as he possibly could, these words were for him alone, “Sherlock Holmes, you could never let me down, you have never let me down before, and I know for a fact that even if a mistake is made, you and I are going to work together to rectify it, I will never expect you to do anything other than love me, that means you could never disappoint me in the ways you are worrying about.” Sherlock smiled, and immediately he looked a decade younger. John flashed the same smile, and reiterated his words, “you could never let me down.” Sherlock went to kiss John on the mouth but John pulled away, “save it for the alter my boy” he joked, Sherlock snorted and made a large ‘ha!’ sound which had everyone stare once more, except now, neither parties cared.  

The two men stood staring into the bathroom mirror. Huge and elaborate as anything else in this place, John wondered if he had ever seen quite so much of himself reflected back all at once. It proved a daunting sight. They were both wearing their suits, Sherlock wore a bespoke Burberry three-piece suit, and the cut was from a thick stone grey fabric. Making it a natural colour, to fit with the environment they were to wed in, there was a slight tweed pattern, very subtle with thin geometric lines in groupings and wide apart from each other. A row of six buttons trailed along his waistcoat, the final button resting at the naval was intentionally left undone, making a pointed finish and not a straight end. It was a slightly loose fit to allow movement for the dance. The shirt in comparison was a very pale blue; it had buttons on the points of the collar to keep it in place, the tie lay tucked in, and its textured bronze fabric was most eye-catching. It was meticulously thought out, even the black over coat had been fit perfectly and the buttons were removed and stitched back on an inch lower than the original stitch so that the whole look was a symmetric dream. The over coat was only to be worn as a drape, not as an actual coat. Sherlock had always thought clothing as armour, and this was no different, he knew he looked appealing. John definitely thought so.

John stood next to him, looking quite different. He thought he would take this opportunity to wear whatever the hell he wanted. In order to match the theme of an outdoor wedding, he also dressed warm and in natural colours. His suit was louder than Sherlock’s, of course it was, it had to be, the suit was also three-piece, bespoke, and made to tailored perfection.  The pattern was a tight dark red and black gingham defined. It was sharp, and probably would work like a zebras stripes once amongst the forest. The shirt was crisp white, and the collars had no buttons but they were large and flamboyant. Johns tie was black with small almost unnoticeable orange spots, again it acted as contrast and was also textured, less so than Sherlock’s, but it worked. The final touch was the pale green silk cut of material that was prettily folded into the breast pocket. This combination had also been tried, tested and articulated for months. Both men had a white flower attached like a broach to the left sides of their suits, careful not the damage the fabric; they placed them upon one another in their hotel bathroom. When completed they gazed upon each other in act of pause. John beamed, “we look, fucking, fantastic.” Sherlock laughed and then proceeded to watch John smooth down his hair in the self-indulgent mirror. “Right, are we ready?” Sherlock nodded and with that they left the hotel room and headed for the walk into the woods towards Hunger Hill.

Lestrade and his husband stepped out of the Mercedes company car in their finest attire. Greg was slightly concerned that he and Mycroft may have dressed better than the grooms, he had voiced this to his spouse throughout the entire process, from the invite that led to the fitting, purchasing and tailoring, but Mycroft insisted that it did not matter, if they were dressed better than both his brother and John on their wedding day then that was the fault of them, not of he and his husband. Both men wore black tuxes, bow ties and all, the invite did bluntly specify to ‘dress well,’ so really they were just meeting requirements. The suits were similar, but distinguishable in both accessories and character. Greg was clean-shaven and Mycroft had developed this rather beautiful short beard. It was groomed within an inch of its life, Sherlock would undoubtedly point it out as another signal of his OCD, but Mycroft was secretly proud of it, and anyhow, Lestrade thought it suited him. Mycroft took Greg’s arm and they followed the only footpath towards the wedding destination, neither man had any clue of what lay in store. Mycroft swung his umbrella round like he was in a Broadway show of Mary Poppins and watched the orange leaves fall to the floor in their masses. Greg did the same, however he was more focused on the gaps between the trees and how endless the forest seemed to be. There was no horizon; just more gaps between ever more distancing trees. They marched in unison hearing nothing but the sounds of nature that was until, they heard a small sort of voice call “Lestrade” over and over again. The couple turned simultaneously and found a rather flustered Molly Hooper. “Ah Molly,” Greg chimed. She jollied along until she was able to give Greg a little awkward hug, she seemed nervous; she gave a fumbled curtsy in Mycroft’s direction before informing him, “nice to see you again Mister Lestrade Holmes.” Greg and he had talked about this before, talked about this very moment that Mycroft would have to face Molly Hooper again. It was not that anything had happened per say, however she was for some reason or another irrevocably afraid of Mycroft; Sherlock must have spun lies to her, or fed her with his infectious rants. Sure, he was an important man, but nothing to fear; at least to Molly he was nothing to fear. She was a harmful goldfish in Mycroft’s eyes, with nothing short of an incessant infatuation with his brother, but she was harmless, and she respected John too much to do anything foolish, not that Sherlock would bite, for he had never shown interest of any capacity in anyone other than John. Maybe one day she would learn to love herself without Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Watson-Holmes soon. Lestrade had instructed Mycroft to act like she was his dear friend when she was around, make her feel more comfortable, ask her about her work, converse with her. Mycroft had rolled his eyes, but Lestrade truly loved Molly, as a friend of course, he felt an almost parental notion to take care of her. She did not need anyone to take care of her, but Greg wanted to anyhow. He wanted Mycroft to like her too, no matter how much she was ruled by her feelings. So Mycroft out stretched his arm in a gesture of a link, “would you?” Molly took his arm, maybe a tad apprehensively, but today Molly felt brave. Just like John, the wedding gave her an excuse to wear whatever she wanted, so on this day, she wore ankle high shiny black wellington boots, which seemed appropriate for a forest. They had cute rubber bows along the side, and they were strangely inconspicuous despite being water protectors. With that she wore a long black dress. It hugged her in all the right places and made her feel confident. With that she had a large dark green waterproof bomber jacket; it had a hood and everything. She was prepared for whatever weather and she felt great. She loved a wedding. Greg beamed and nodded his head shy; Mycroft saw it all and endeavored to see it again, “so Molly, anything unusual happened at work recently?” Greg tried very hard not to laugh; Mycroft saw that too and continued in a similar fashion.

John and Sherlock had left in enough time to know for a fact that they would be ahead of all the oncoming guests on the trail. With their friends and family literally pushing them forward, they had nothing to fear. Sherlock and John had not physically touched one another since leaving the hotel, and it was not until they reached the opening of where their ceremony was to take place, that Sherlock took Johns hand. They stood shocked at how ineffable the sight before them seemed. It was the first time they had stopped moving, and on standing still for a moment, John put his hands on his waist and then dropped them again. They hung in the air like an opportunity, and Sherlock took it. Using his left hand he grabbed Johns hand delicately. They held connected by palms and over lapping thumbs. “Sherlock,” John uttered, unable of much else, “I know,” Sherlock replied just as in awe as his fiancé. Yesterday it looked like this, but also not like this. It all meant something now. There was a long rug in perfect alignment with the five rows of small individual twelve wooden ornate benches. They had no arm support, and no backrests; they were practical and blended in with the trees around them. The rug acted as the aisle, the partition between separated rows of three spots for three people at either side. Not all seats would be filled today, they knew that, and really that is how they wanted it. The mat itself was made of sewn together industrial coffee bags and was perfectly flat in its execution. Like a red carpet for farmers. The original markings still sat inked upon the rough material. On either side of the walkway, before the benches, was a smattering of white rose petals. Crisp, fresh and clean. Still moist with the dew of that morning, maybe even the fog John had seen pass over this wood had dampened the rose petals, ensuring that they did not shrivel before the ceremonies happening. There were hand made decorations hanging from the trees all above where the guests would be seated. They were hung with fish wire, and so had this element of wonder about them. They were mostly made of tissue paper, and John did worry that if it did in fact rain, they would weigh heavy and fall with a splat upon the seated guests. The idea made Sherlock laugh so hard that he had to assure that this was a thing that was going to happen. Sadly it had not rained. There was still time. Even though this section alone was beautiful, it was what was at the front that was truly spectacular.

There were three steps up to a platform enshrouded in some of the largest Oaks they had ever seen; they were tall, perfectly formed and proud. Much like Sherlock really. When they first came to the sight when planning for the wedding John commented that he felt like he was in Norway. Sherlock then educated him of trees for at least eight minutes. Apparently these Oaks were originated from Northern Europe, most likely Finland, but John took it that his observational skills were ever improving. The stage itself was small, round, fit for purpose and place. Much like John really. Both the stage and the trees were designed to perfectly fit one another. Man made and natural structure forced to combine in difference, and yet made of the same material. White Chinese lanterns were wrapped and connected from tree to tree, encircling the stage, making it feel more and more intimate. They were small, but they glowed in the autumn light making them present despite their size. It was simple, and the humongous ridiculous reception tents awaited them later. For now however, the ceremony needed to take place. 

“Hello Boys.” Grooms swung round, hands disconnected in preparation for hugging the oncoming Mrs. Hudson. “Crikey, you’re earlier than the Priest,” John joked. “I know I just could not wait to get here, wow you two look fabulous!” They embraced, exchanged mutual pleasantries, and after Sherlock gave her a very polite kiss upon the cheek, she said, “boys this is just beautiful, I never knew either of you had such an eye, especially after such a messy flat!” She jovially patted Sherlock on the arm, “Well Hudders when it’s ones wedding day” Sherlock spoke deep with pride. He puffed out his chest and gave John a suggestive smirk. It made Johns belly do a flip, very soon this deity would be his husband. Mrs Hudson was wearing a suit herself, a feminine cut bold tweed, and she too wore an overcoat, yet this one was brown. John thought she looked like a retired golfer who’d made millions in their career. Smart and comfortable, it was a good omen for some of the outfits to come. Sherlock linked her arm and ushered her down the aisle to her seat, naturally right in the front row, as they walked John heard her say, “sorry Missus’ Turner could not come, and she so wanted to finally meet you both.” John chuckled quietly to himself, he was almost certain this Turner did not exist he thought whilst waiting for Sherlock to walk against the aisle and greet him once more. He was back in a few minutes, and just like that there was a huge group of people to be greeted as they rounded the corner to the clearing. It seems they had all bumped into one another on the trail. There was a sea of smiles, kind words and embraces. The guests mostly sat wherever they wanted, there were not many amongst this group anyway. There were Sherlock’s parents, some old colleagues of John, Mike Stamford who introduced them and his wife, some of the lot from Scotland Yard and a man named James Sholto that John talked of occasionally. He was a rarity apparently, much to Sherlock’s annoyance, but then, it seemed important to John that he come, and so he was here. John greeted Sholto like he was a nineteen-year-old military recruit again. Army existence was much of John’s character. Sherlock loved the army side of John, but mostly when it was intended to affect him, not anyone else. Sherlock felt the loathsome doubt start to creep from the back of his brain, all these people, so many problems, and just as he was sinking deeper, everyone was now seated, they standing alone waiting for the stragglers, John did something remarkable. The backs of all those seated were all they could see and they were all lost in excited conversation, mostly about the beauty of this place, their chatter gave Sherlock and John some unexpected privacy. John could see it, the hard swallow, the flickering eyes, the chewed lip, these were all signs that Sherlock’s mind was racing, and not in a good way. John had referred to it as the washing machine thought pattern. Sherlock’s mind was constantly spinning, always turning, sometimes just like this machine it would spin faster and get louder and repeat in such short amount of rotations, other times it would be a slow quiet rumble awaiting the next fast part. Either way Sherlock’s thoughts would not stop, they never did, however John could tell when those thoughts were self damaging or unhealthy by these physical outward cues. John knew he needed to take Sherlock out of this, make him happy, so he pulled Sherlock’s body to his own and held his face before kissing him on the mouth. Soft, slow, calculated. Immediately the washing machine turned off, and Sherlock could feel the joy take over the unwanted brain malfunction. Silence rang around them, John thought it was because he was lost in the kiss, but on separating it turned out that it literally was silent, the wedding guests had all turned to face them. Recently nudging that person next to them to look and see the romantic exchange, before they knew it like Chinese whispers they all watched that brief moment of not yet marital intimacy. Lips still tingling, they were immediately greeted with wolf whistles and funny shouts of, “save it for the honeymoon lads! You’re not even married yet!” John waved a hand in a comic ‘stop it’ fashion and even Sherlock joined in with a joking, “shut up” to the baiting crowd. Before it settled down, the final guests sauntered in, in the form of Molly, Mycroft and Greg. All interlinked as if they were following the yellow brick road to the Emerald City. Greg gave a huge grin, openly displaying his tonsils, there were shouts of “oi oi boss!” from those at Scotland Yard, Greg gave the same “oi oi” back. The Holmes boys greeted one another as formal as it gets, “brother” spoke one, and “brother” was what the other replied. John hugged them all, even Mycroft, and Molly was genuinely pleased at such a day. In that moment she was over Sherlock Holmes, it was probably always the idea of him more than anything, they deserved one another, John and Sherlock, and they fitted each other perfectly. One useless without the other, like a left glove without its right. Her smile was large and she kissed John on the cheek like a true friend, congratulating them both in a flush before taking a seat next to Mrs. Hudson. Greg hugged Sherlock tight and informed him that he was “a very lucky bastard.” Sherlock whispered back an “I know,” and even winked at his friend. Within a minute, the secular priest appeared and after greeting the men, he headed straight for the platform encircled in a tryst of trees. Now the ceremony was to begin.

Sherlock did not believe he would be able to stand walking down the aisle alone, and alongside a parent seemed worse. Even John did not particularly like the idea. So they headed for the stage right behind the priest, arm in arm, hand in hand, their bodies close and synchronized. There was no music, they did not need it, and they were to be married to the sound of the forest. Standing facing one another, when looking each other in the eye they could not help but snicker at how insane this moment was. Neither Sherlock nor John ever thought they would get married, John maybe thought about it in his teens or in previous relationships, but he knew they were never the person, his person. Sherlock did not think it actually possible for someone to love him, so he did not trifle with it. Yet here they both stood. Leaves falling, echoes resounding off trees, and those they only thought right to be here sat watching the event unfold.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.” There was a smattering of applause and both John and Sherlock flashed their crowd a smile, it had begun. “In this matrimony the vows that you are about to take are to stand as a promise and a demonstration of your commitment to one another until death do you part, please take each others arms in your hands.” Sherlock was the one to take the step forward, he placed his hands on both of Johns forearms, their wrists touched, pulse to pulse, the original life lines were now to be connected as one. John entwined his own hands round Sherlock’s own forearms, his finger index fingers were trying to reach Sherlock’s elbows, and the position meant that the tips of Sherlock’s long index fingers were resting in the bend of John’s elbow. He felt the smooth fabric beneath his hands and took a deep breath. John gave Sherlock a confident smile and Sherlock shyly dipped his eyes and bit his lip. They had practiced all of this hundreds of times. They had decided on one of the oldest wedding ceremony rituals you could think of. A hand fasting ceremony dated back to the ancient Celts, it involved hands being symbolically connected by ribbon or rope and the vows were taken through a series of questions before the hands would then be untied. Now that arms and pulses were connected, the vows alongside ribbons were now to follow. The priest began, “John and Sherlock, do you come here voluntarily to enter this marriage ceremony.” John and Sherlock answered in unison and would continue to do so whilst the vows were exchanged, “yes, we do.” Neither the individual asking the questions, nor the couple had to speak too loudly for everyone to hear, the forest was almost silent, as if the trees themselves were listening. “I will now tie the ribbon to bind you together in these vows,” the priest pulled out a piece of white ribbon. It was a shiny pearl colour, and was visibly seen by everyone. Sherlock was the one to choose its colour, he agreed that white was not only wedding suitable but it also matched the rose petals scattered along the floor. The ribbon was long enough to wrap around both men’s forearms and hands, it wound its way through and over in a figure of eight pattern before being loosely knotted to hang freely beneath the pairs right hands. With each question answered, a guest would come forward and place a ribbon of their own, which they had been instructed to bring, upon the already tied hands. 

“John and Sherlock, will you honour and respect one another?”

“We will.”

Sherlock’s mother came forward first, taking the three steps slowly. Her ribbon was a pale pink and was loosely tied to white ribbon and dangled from Sherlock’s left arm like blossom. They both thanked her and she was back down to her seat, her responsibility now over.

“Will you support and assist each other in times of pain and sorrow?”

“We will.”

Sherlock’s dad came forward now, a deep blue ribbon like that of the night sky dangled from Johns right arm as he returned to his seat, he was also thanked and secretly relieved to be out of the momentary spotlight. 

“Will you be present in difficult and challenging times so that you may grow strong in this union?”

“We will.”     

Mycroft was next, initially he battled having to do this, but it did seem fit. He may have just been in denial about the fact that his younger brother was no longer a boy, a man wedding another man. Sherlock being married was a shock, and his asked involvement in it even more so. His ribbon was royal blue, political in every detail Mycroft was. An act of pro monarchy even, at his own brothers wedding. As John said the same thanks as before, this time Sherlock curtly nodded his head and pushed out his lips, making John smirk. Sherlock would thank him later, he always did. 

“Will you share each others laughter and joy, and look for the brightness and fun in life, and the positive in each other?”

“We will.”

Greg was next in line, he perused confidently and was used to being in front of large fronts of people, regardless of circumstance. His ribbon was a very bright red and green tartan. It matched what Sherlock and John wore perfectly and was a very happy accident. Greg had known Sherlock for so long he felt scarily related to him even before he married Mycroft. He’d witnessed with his own eyes his new brother in laws relationship progress. From them merely as colleagues and flat mates, then friends, then best friends, then a secret relationship, the drunken admission from John, then it went public, and now here he stood. Years later. Lestrade even gave them a quiet “congratulations” which was met with an eek and a laugh from the still conjoined pair.

 “Is it your intention to bring peace and harmony into your every day ways of communicating?” This one was a bit more complicated, Sherlock was prone after all a rant, but for John he would promise to tailor his words, he had done that always really. He always wanted John to understand, ever since they met. It just required some practice, and anyway in a case environment of course emotional concerns may complicate words, yet they knew this vow could be met.

“We will.”

Mrs. Hudson came forth with a deep purple ribbon, in a silver glitter gel pen she wrote a message along the tiny piece of material, it read, “I knew this is where you two would end up!” She was the only one to think of such and ingenious method of communication.

“And when you falter, will you have the courage and commitment to remember these promises and take a step back towards one another with an open heart?”

This one was easy, “we will.”

The last ribbon to be placed was designated to Mike Stamford, he was the person to introduce them after all, and thus it seemed fit that he tied the last ribbon. The brief thanks were probably the most genuine of them all. He meant a lot to these two. John definitely demonstrated that on the day he bought the engagement ring and happened to bump into him.  

As Mike took his seat once more, the priest addressed the couple and the congregation, “now you have clarified your intentions to one another in this union and the years you are about to share, your union has been symbolized by the tying of these ribbons, two ends becoming one. Friends and family act as witnesses here today and demonstrate their support and acceptance through the secondary ribbons, may they add colour to this union for years to come, just as they have to this ribbon. Whilst we are now going to remove the ribbons the knots will remain tied symbolizing two lives becoming one.” The priest then slid the mesh of connected ribbons from the men’s wrists and placed it over one shoulder, seen but out of the way. Both their arms ached slightly and on lowering their hands John stretched his arms out and pulled a face, which made everyone including Sherlock chuckle. There was more to do.

 “Now for the rings!” The priest bellowed like something out of a Peter Jackson film. Both Sherlock and John reached into their jackets, John pulled out the gold band bearing his name from inside coat pocket, Sherlock did the same, except his had Holmes on the inside. They were literally exchanging names. “If you would like to make your pronouncements please.”

They had discussed who they thought should go first in this, the conclusion was that Sherlock did not want to wait to speak as he knew time muddled his words, he usually counted to one and then acted rather than ruminated upon things whilst in a moment of action. This was no different, extremely important, but no different. Sherlock said, maybe a little quieter than expected, his statement. “Captain John Watson, it is with great honour that I stand before you as of this moment, I cannot believe I ever solved a case without you, thank you for you due patience, your understanding and your undying love, I hope to return it.” There was a murmur of adorations from the viewers, Sherlock began to then slip the ring over Johns finger, Holmes connecting to Watson, “with this ring, I thee wed.” When the ring was fully on, John gripped Sherlock’s hand and briefly kissed it before clearing his throat in a loud and dramatic fashion that made Sherlock audibly snicker. As John began he could only look at his feet, but as he continued he met his soon to be husbands eyes, “Sherlock, you are without a doubt, the most, insane, private, tall, babbling, brilliant, genius of a man I have ever met.” Everyone laughed and it brought a warm smile to Sherlock’s lips, when it quieted, John continued more humbly than before, “and I cannot believe you are mine.” Mrs Hudson and Molly both had to wipe their faces, even Greg was fighting to keep it together. John slipped the ring on Sherlock’s hand, “with this ring, I thee wed.” One more step and it was complete. One last oversee was needed, “I now pronounce this union well-founded, you may kiss your husband.” The moment everyone was really here, (besides the party,) the first kiss as a married couple. It was glorious.

It was approaching three in the afternoon, and all of sudden Sherlock felt starving. As soon as he parted lips with John his stomach rumbled, it could not be heard over the rampant applause, but he was hungry. In that kiss all the anxiety of the past few days had released and he walked arm in arm with his husband up the aisle, all the guests stood themselves, and with the priests they followed both Sherlock and John to walk excitedly to where the reception would be held. The procession was loud and as they walked, Lestrade began to sing loudly as if prematurely drunk, “For they are jolly good fellows, for they are jolly good fellows” and so on and it only took one line for the whole group to join in. Both John and his new spouse kissed repeatedly as they walked, arm in arm, barely parting. The path continually crisscrossed and it was not until after ten minutes of ruckus singing that it narrowed and turned sharply that it was clear what was ahead of them. There was an alley of lit torches forming a clear path out of nothing but the now marked ground. It’s width forced you to sort of pair up. And they walked through the trees with excitement fueling their adamant steps. After around one hundred meters the torch way morphed into lanterns hanging from the trees. They hovered in mid air and gave the notion of being transported back in time, after some while it was obvious that a rather large clearing was coming up ahead, the biggest in the woodland in actual fact. A series of small white open and peaked tents began to take shape, and on entering the clearing it could all be seen easily. One tent, the largest of the lot, was sat directly in the middle. It had medieval patterning with a tapestry hem and six painted white wooden poles held it upright. There were two tables inside, facing one another, it was one large table really, it was intimate and fewer than twenty seats were needed. The tables were dressed with autumnal flowers and a pearl white cloth, the tables and chairs were a polished brown, and with added candlelight it was more than inviting. Between the tents were stepping-stones placed upon the ground. Mycroft imagined children jumping from one to another and he felt that paternal angst he’d been experiencing a lot lately. There was a square tent, not as flamboyant as the first and all it contained was a small stage, some music equipment and a light wooden dance floor. The final tent was the smallest of the bunch; a simple thing for it was really only bearing a table that had a large bucket providing alcohol and a splendid cake. It was traditional white three-tiered cake; the only difference was that atop the cake was a three-dimensional icing made deerstalker hat. John was in charge of the cake and he could not resist. When he first brought it home, Sherlock jokingly told him to “fuck off” and genuinely did not believe John was serious about this being the wedding cake. But of course he was, Sherlock took it in great faith and it was something they would laugh about for years to come. A catering tent sat just behind the tree line and food was brought out in a rather extravagant fashion.

At the hem of the inside of the dinner tent, there was a small cabinet holding around six pairs of wellies of varying sizes just in case it rained and the ground saturated, and thus smothered the steeping stones. This had been John’s idea, from his time in the infantry; he knew how uncomfortable wet feet could be. Hopefully they would not need them, but an outdoor wedding did require some level of preparedness. For example, there were also umbrellas, a holder bearing a dozen black umbrellas to be precise. Mycroft noticed them immediately, he had his own of course. He rarely ever left the house without one, even on a hot June day.

On the wedding menu was trout and hollandaise sauce to begin with, caught in a river mere miles away. Main involved beef wellington with all the trimmings, Sherlock like it medium to well done, John preferred it practically rare. Dessert was simply a slice of the comical wedding cake. It was carrot cake. Sweetened to perfection. Lashings of champagne and a Camden pale ale accompanied every dish, and every guest was humming by the time of the speeches. First speech was to come from Sherlock. The pair had not asked anyone to do a speech other than from the two of them. Largely because they didn’t see it as necessity, but also because most likely the only two other people they would ask to speak would be Lestrade and Mycroft, and Sherlock and John decided that they wanted them to simply enjoy the day. No pressure, no expectation, no judgments. Just the two men, using the opportunity to demonstrate their love for one another, in company of those who were welcomed enough to hear the words.

Sherlock stood and swallowed hard. He was incredibly nervous. The alcohol was helping a little bit. Okay maybe a lot. He smoothed down his suit jacket and undid several waistcoat buttons before taking a deep yet silent breath. “John, you are without doubt the most brilliant man I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.” His eyes flashed in John’s direction but he could not yet meet those eyes. Those eyes that really saw Sherlock, the only pair that he had ever truly seen the deepest parts of him. Witnessed an unfurling of such a once private individual. Sherlock used to slouch. John had noticed his body begin to raise over the years, his chin face the horizon and his eyes to do a three-sixty, before he largely stared at the floor and his back curved at its peak, now he stood tall. Stood tall by John’s side. Now John was the one whose back would arch, at his husband’s words he had to dip his head to hide his tears. John never really handled crying. He wasn’t good at this sort of stuff. The words were for and about him, but somehow they were too great to believe, and overwhelming to feel. In dark times in the future however, those words would chime in his head and he would feel saved. Resurrected by past syllables.

“John, when we first met I knew immediately you to be a fighter. Deductions even self admittedly I knew to be more than fine, you were brave, your face belonged to the finest poker player, a fake limp intrigued me, but it was the tanned strong hands that hung alone, untouched that had me gripped. I have never wanted to impress anyone for anything other than professional gain, further a case or begin the game, but when you walked through that door in Saint Barts however, it was all I wanted. To make you like me, to make you want to be on my side. But it soon became evident that I did not really have to try.” Now Sherlock looked down at John and placed a hand on his shoulder in consolation, John with full eyes could not yet look, to be connected he placed his opposing hand upon Sherlock’s. Flesh to flesh, bond to bond. “From the very beginning you understood the deepest meaning of what is the way I wish the world to be, justified, dignified and enjoyed by those who most deserve it. You, John, were the first person to make me believe that I deserved those things. In childhood I could never quite grasp the concept of happiness. It baffled me completely, this continued and I am almost certain that practically everyone in this tent could give you exact anecdotes on that unhappiness and how I acted upon it.” Mycroft shuffled minutely and Greg squeezed his leg under the table, undoubtedly they were thinking of the same times, “Then like a true doctor, you healed me.” Sherlock squeezed John for a moment at the point of contact and John replied by entwining his fingers around Sherlock’s palm. “I was open and bleeding eternally, for everyone to see. I was dying John. Here but not living, it is in fact possible for living people to be ghosts. When we met I think it is easy to argue that you and I were ghosts. I hope that is not unfair in my reasoning.” John shook his head in agreement as Sherlock continued, as he did so a single tear finally hit the table, a droplet pool dissipated beneath him, yet he was glad it happened, made him feel grounded, realize this was truly happening and how great a thing it was too. “Then there was a time when I saw it, a glimpse at joy, it terrified me. Completely and utterly terrified me.” There was a mild laughter around the tent, it did not throw Sherlock off, “it was on our second case together, a girl had just died, murdered by her own brother, afterwards we walked to our home in Baker Street, and you turned to me and told me that at least she was not suffering anymore. I did not understand, I’d never considered it, neither her nor her suffering beyond her place in the crime, I questioned you on it, pressed at who you were and the way you thought. You said ‘imagine living all those years fearing your own brother will have to do the awful act of killing his own sister,’ it was not even about her, it was about her concerns for her brother. I had never witnessed anyone understand the most harshest complexities of the human state and still bear optimism. It was the most humanistic thing I had ever seen, and just hearing your words made me feel actually human for once, like I actually belonged, and more importantly like I belonged to you. And I do belong to you John. What I would do without you would most likely cause the end of the world, as we know it anyway. You are a leader of men, a captain in all things, including my heart. I owe you so much. I have a life time to prove that to you, and I will vow to do so.”              

Mrs. Hudson was an absolute state. She was crying relentlessly. Sherlock, her Sherlock confessing to happiness. True love blind happiness. She never thought she’d see the day, this was a dream. At his brothers words, Mycroft too felt the same, it was almost as if a weight lifted from him, a weight he had apparently unknowingly carried for his brothers entire existence. A want so great for his little brother to feel safe and happy. Maybe he had been overbearing before, but all he did was care. Now John cared, and Sherlock had everything he needed. Mycroft could worry less at night after this day. Sherlock had John. He did not need to protect his little brother anymore. In John he’d found his soul, his everything. He kissed Greg out of sheer delight at the ending of Sherlock’s words. After a brief moment there was a lovely circle of applause and now John stood and Sherlock sat, hands no longer resting upon Johns shoulder. People tapped on glasses and loudly spoke on cheery expectance, John did not know how he was going to top that. Once it settled John sniffed loudly and unapologetically, there were a few snickers, “fuck me Sherlock if I knew it was going to be like that I’d have gone first for fuck sake.” Loud bellows followed, Sherlock chuckled himself. He was glad it had gone well. Unlike John, he actually felt ready for this, ready for John’s words. “Sherlock William Scott Watson-Holmes.” Immediate whistles followed, impressed by the name change, spoke proudly by John. “Holy shit you are actually my husband, Sherlock William Scott Watson Holmes, I have no idea how I am going to carry you across the threshold of two-two-one-bee, you’re a giant.” More laughter, “how on earth did a little sod like me marry a giant, erm, sorry I’m babbling and you said such lovely beautiful poetic words, Christ, erm” more laughter, John rubbed his closed eyes with his finger tips, retracting his thoughts on this moment, “yes, right, Sherlock.” Now John looked at him. Looked at his home. His other half, looked down at the seated and suited husband, and he was here again. Just like that Sherlock had brought him back to earth, back to an earth he wanted to be a part of, his voice changed, mellowed, no longer searching for he’d found his voice in Sherlock’s eyes, “Sherlock, I don’t think I will ever be able to quite vocalize quite how much you mean to me.” Such an admittance had the air taste sweeter and eyes seep, “Sherlock, you see the world like a map, a map you can easily read, everything makes sense to you, everything but me. I think that is why this ridiculous life we lead works. I intrigued you because, just like you were to me, I was never like anyone you’d ever met, and why not I’m fucking fabulous,” the biggest laughter yet, and now Sherlock cried, a tear rolled down to greet the huge frozen grin, “oh it was so nice for a second, erm, no, I was a puzzle for you, something to build and piece together. I was another mystery for you. Something to solve and I’m glad to inform you, that like everything else, you’ve solved it, of course you have, you have not only sussed me out, but you have fixed me. Put time and effort into making me whole again. When we met, to use your words, I was a living ghost, my heart pumped and my lungs breathed, and I chewed and swallowed my food, but I was not here. I had created a fake limp for myself and a huge complex about life knocked me flat. I’d won the consequence of war and lost the value in escape. I did not want to be here any more, I didn’t want to die, I just also did not want to be alive. Quite the conundrum, but you see, you gave me reasons to live. And then you made me want to live. And then you became why I live. Now you are why I live happily. I’ve never been so content, so at peace with myself. Basically I’m on cloud fucking nine. You’re utterly brilliant. So Sherlock Watson-Holmes, I cannot wait to continue to share my life with you. Lets all raise a glass to us.” Everyone stood and as all guests raised their glasses and spoke a harmonious cheer, Sherlock and John shared an undying kiss. They were wed, and now it was to the dance floor. John had been surprised when Sherlock told him he always loved to dance as they practiced in the flat, but it was all just part and parcel to all that was the brilliant detective. Watson-Holmes was the only way forward, and what a happy forward it was. Such a night was filled with communal dancing, singing, drinking, toasting marshmallows atop a fire, and even lighting fireworks in the rain, a miracle that they worked really. As everyone watched the fireworks, distracted by the bright lights, Sherlock and John took the opportunity to stand at the back and simply hold one another. Swaying slightly in their first dance that they wanted no one else to know of. The smell of the damp trees played amidst the ever darkening night, its strong scent would always take the married men to this moment and trees seemed nothing but a welcome sign to a happy way ahead.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions or queries, don't hasten to let me know. I hope whatever you are going through, this offered some escape or some feeling that everything is worth living for. You will find the Watson to your Holmes. x
> 
> Thanks to Grace and Kanika for your endeavouring support.


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